Father's Day Murder Page 8

  “I bet they all went to your concerts.”

  “Yes, I’ll say that for the boys. They’ve been loyal.”

  “What did you think of his books?”

  “Well done. Clever, witty, always page turners, as they say. What he did in his first book, The Lost Boulevard, he took the nine of us and sort of melted us down into five young men. He took the two doctors and made them one character. He had a lawyer, a musician, a writer, and a businessman. You can see where he combined two people and made them one. It’s very skillful, very artful. He had a tremendous talent.”

  “Here’s something to keep you going,” Judy Meyer said, coming in with a huge tray. I jumped up and helped her set it down on a coffee table. “Everyone OK with tea?” she said.

  “Fine. It looks lovely.” There were small sandwiches and a tray of lovely looking individual cakes. The teapot was old china, the kind of piece I would feel nervous about using. The cups and saucers matched it. I wondered if someone in the generation before theirs had brought it over from Europe or if they had picked it up themselves somewhere. Whatever it was, I admired their taste.

  Judy Meyer poured the tea through a strainer and passed the cups to me. I handed Joe his and he propped himself up in his chair so that he was sitting more upright. His wife put an assortment of sandwiches and cakes on a plate and set it on the table beside him. He seemed energized, just looking at the food.

  “I heard you talking about Artie’s first book,” Judy said. “I didn’t meet him till he was already working on it. I remember once the gang was getting together and Artie said he couldn’t make it; he had to work on the manuscript. But Alice dragged him out, remember, Joe? I think she was just tired of sitting at home doing nothing while he worked.”

  “Is there anything in that book that anyone in the group would find embarrassing?” I asked.

  Joe shrugged. “I haven’t looked at that book in twenty, thirty years. I remember at the time that we were all talking about it, identifying who was who, did this really happen, that kind of thing. But remember, even if there were embarrassing things—and I’m not saying there were—the characters were composites. You couldn’t take one of his characters and say, ‘This is Joe Meyer.’ It wasn’t like that. There was a musician, but he played a different instrument, he went out with different women, and he had different experiences. Artie wanted to portray people who were typical of the time, not just the boys he grew up with.”

  “What was Arthur Wien’s relationship to Fred Beller?”

  “Fred Beller.” He seemed surprised to hear the name mentioned. “I haven’t seen Fred Beller in so many years, I couldn’t swear he was still alive.”

  “I had lunch with him yesterday,” I said.

  The surprise on Joe Meyer’s face had to be genuine. “Fred’s in New York?”

  “He was staying at the Waldorf. When I called, he invited me for lunch.”

  “I can’t believe it. Fred hates New York. And as far as I know, he doesn’t have the warmest feelings for the guys either.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh I don’t know, a clash of personalities maybe. You snub your nose at New York and New Yorkers get their hackles up. They’re not the most forgiving people. How did you happen to find Fred?”

  “Dr. Horowitz gave me his home address and I telephoned. His daughter said he was in New York. I called his room and he answered.”

  “Amazing. And he talked to you?”

  “He and his wife.”

  “Wasn’t there some to-do between Fred and Artie, Judy? A couple of years ago?”

  “There was something but I don’t remember what.”

  “Artie was supposed to see them, I think. Wasn’t he out in Minnesota on a book tour? But something happened and they didn’t get together?” He had been talking almost to himself. Now he turned to me. “They just didn’t get along.”

  “Was there anything between Mr. Wien and Mrs. Beller?”

  “I don’t see how there could have been. Fred was never here. I wonder if—what’s Fred’s wife’s name again?”

  “Marge,” I said.

  “Marge. I wonder if Artie and Marge ever met.”

  “I’m looking for a motive, some problem that may have erupted a long time ago, something that the killer couldn’t forget, couldn’t forgive, couldn’t live with. Someone walked into that restaurant last Sunday prepared to kill Arthur Wien.”

  “It wasn’t one of us, Chris. There’s nothing in the past that could explain one of us killing Artie. And I doubt whether there’s anything in the present. We don’t see each other that much except for reunions or an occasional get-together.”

  Judy Meyer got up and carried the teapot over to where I was sitting. “It’s a beautiful pot,” I said as she poured.

  “It was my grandmother’s. I’ve never had an expert look at it because I was afraid I’d be told it was worth a king’s ransom and then I couldn’t use it any more.”

  “Do you have any special knowledge of the men or their wives?” I asked her.

  “They’re all very interesting people. We were close to Art and his first wife, but after they separated, we saw less of Art. His new wife—well, his second wife—Cindy, is a lovely person, but when you’ve known a couple, it’s hard to watch them break up and even harder to accept replacements.”

  “Did Alice Wien ever remarry?”

  “Not that we’ve heard. She lives around here, you know. I run into her sometimes on Broadway. I saw her at Zabar’s about a month ago.”

  I knew that Zabar’s was a place to buy gourmet food, and it didn’t surprise me that sophisticated New Yorkers would run into each other there. “She’s one of the people on my list to talk to.”

  “Give her a call,” Judy said. “If she’s home, she’ll probably see you.”

  “Did she go to the funeral?”

  Judy looked at her husband. “I didn’t see her there, did you? There was a huge crowd, you know.”

  “I didn’t see her,” he said.

  “Is she a person who might have wanted to see her ex-husband dead?” I asked.

  “I can’t see why,” Judy said. “I think he was still paying her alimony.”

  “What about her children? Did they harbor animosity toward their father?”

  “They probably did,” Joe said. He leaned over and put his cup down on the little table beside him. “But you’re talking about a lot more than animosity if it led to murder.”

  “I keep thinking that it happened on Father’s Day,” I said.

  “I don’t think there’s any significance to that. It just happens to be the day we picked for our get-together. We once tried to have it on Mother’s Day and we couldn’t.” He laughed. “The wives all objected.”

  “Any rumors of blackmail?” I tossed out.

  “Oh I don’t think so,” Joe said with a smile. “These are pretty well-behaved people we’re talking about.”

  “But one of them murdered Arthur Wien,” I said.

  “Maybe there was someone at the restaurant who knew we’d be there, someone just lying in wait for Artie to detach himself from the group. Did you ever think of that?”

  I had and it didn’t make my job any easier. “Like Fred Beller?” I said.

  They didn’t answer. I finished my tea and ate a luscious confection, the last on my plate. Judy offered more but I declined. Jack would have a great dinner waiting for me.

  We chatted a little after that; the Meyers told me about their musical careers and those of their children. Judy brought some pictures in for me to look at. Their son, Joshua, was standing next to several other musicians. Their daughter, Marsha, a beautiful young woman in a long gown, was accepting a huge bouquet of roses on stage.

  “She looks like you,” I said to the proud mother.

  “She’s much more talented. We’re really blessed.”

  It may have been an exaggeration considering her husband’s condition, but she looked and sounded as though she meant it.


  Before I left, I called Alice Wien but she wasn’t home. I decided to call it a day. I still had an appointment for tonight and a long drive home before dinner.

  9

  Eddie was very glad to see me. I must say I never tire of walking into a room when I’ve been away for a while and seeing the smile light up his face as he sees me. I took him out for a little while before his dinner, stopping to talk to neighbors and a couple of dogs. Eddie thinks dogs are the greatest people in the world. My appointment to see Bruce Kaplan was for eight o’clock, giving me just enough time to get Eddie to bed and have dinner with Jack before dashing out again. I would be half dead when I got home, but Jack would have had some useful time alone to study. I hoped we would both have the energy to talk a little tonight. By the time I came home I would have interviewed all the living members of the group except for the famous Bernie and Ernie. I hoped I could still work something out with the doctor, although he had sounded pretty negative on the phone.

  Jack had made Hungarian goulash for dinner, which meant we would have lots of leftovers during the week. Those are the meals I appreciate the most, and most of them are winter dishes. We do a lot of grilling in hot weather, and I was glad it was still cool enough to cook something on the stove for a couple of hours. He used the imported paprika that his sister, Eileen, the caterer, had given us. It was hot and left a memory in my mouth and along my throat after I had finished it. I really appreciate my husband.

  I looked at a map before I left and wrote down how I would get to the Kaplans’ home. I was feeling somewhat deprived, not having so much as glanced at the Times today, but it would be there for me when I had some free time during the week. A book review is as good when it’s two or three days old as when it’s just printed, which isn’t generally true of the news. But I much prefer the reviews to the news, so the loss wasn’t very great.

  We exchanged a quick kiss before I left, and then I was on my way. I reached the Kaplans’ house in plenty of time and parked on the street. These were nice older houses with what realtors call mature shrubs and trees. There were none of the scraggly saplings of the newer developments here. These houses and their landscaping had aged like good wine, richly. I walked partway up the driveway and picked up a slate walk curving from the driveway to the front door. Someone must have mowed the grass that day because the scent was heady, and I loved it. I rang the bell and heard half a concert ringing inside.

  “Christine Bennett?” the woman who opened the door asked.

  “That’s right. Mrs. Kaplan?”

  “Arlene. Come on in. Bruce is waiting for you, ready to tell you tales out of school.”

  He was sitting in a room at the back of the house where the view of a beautiful backyard was just dimming in the setting sun. We introduced ourselves and sat down, Arlene Kaplan nearby. She was graying and plump and wore glasses.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” Bruce Kaplan said. “I understand you’re an amateur looking into our friend’s murder.”

  “That’s right. Dr. Horowitz’s granddaughter was my student this year and she and her mother called me.”

  “What qualifies you to do this kind of thing?”

  “A few past successes, I guess. I’m an ex-nun. When I moved into Oakwood after I was released from my vows, I was kind of appointed by the town council to look into a forty-year-old murder to settle a local problem. I didn’t know what I was getting into, but I managed to solve it. Since then, murders have just popped up and people have asked me to help.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done OK.”

  “I hope I can do as well on this one. It appears to be one of those cases in which the men in the group are the best suspects, but all the ones I’ve spoken to seem very nice, very fond of Mr. Wien, and not at all suspicious.”

  “Well, add my name to the list. I’m a great admirer of Artie, we have all his books—we’ve even read them—” he said laughing, “and we were as shocked as everyone else when we heard he’d been killed.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might want him dead?”

  “Nobody.” He leaned forward in his chair. He had dark hair that was graying and he wore a navy short-sleeved knit shirt with a collar and tan well-creased summer pants. I guessed he hadn’t gained more than ten pounds since he left school. His arms seemed muscular, as though he worked out or did heavy work. “Artie was a nice guy. He had a lot of friends everywhere he went. There are people in Hollywood, people with big names, who were his friends.”

  “Did he ever visit you?”

  He turned to look at his wife. “When was the last time Artie and Cindy came over?”

  “Last year. They were in New York and we invited them out for a weekend. We had a good time, the four of us.”

  “Did they sleep over?”

  “In our guest room,” Arlene Kaplan said.

  “Did you ever visit them at home?”

  “We sure did. We were in California a few months ago and we saw them. Artie was a generous man and his wife is charming. They took us out to dinner, and the next morning Artie and Bruce played golf.”

  “Did Arthur Wien ever ask you to help him in any way?” I looked at Bruce for an answer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he ask you for favors? Did he borrow money from you? Did he ask you to make introductions for him?”

  “Introductions.” Bruce Kaplan laughed. “He was the one who knew people. Favors, I don’t know. Did I fix him up with a blind date when we were younger? Probably. We all did that. As far as money goes, he had plenty of it, or at least he acted as if he did.”

  “What about at the dinner? Was everyone friendly toward him?”

  “Well,” Arlene said, “there was the usual musical chairs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Artie and Cindy came last and there was a lot of place changing, I remember.”

  “Someone didn’t want to sit next to him?”

  “I’m not sure. I think someone wanted to sit next to him and made someone else get up.”

  “Do you remember who?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Somebody took pictures. Take a look.”

  I made a note to do just that. “What do you know about Fred Beller?” I asked.

  “Haven’t seen Fred in at least twenty years,” Bruce said. “He doesn’t like New York and he doesn’t seem to like us very much. Not that he dislikes us. He just seems to get along fine without the group.”

  “I had lunch with him yesterday.”

  He stared at me. I was starting to enjoy startling these men. “Where exactly did you see Fred Beller?”

  “At the Waldorf-Astoria. I had lunch there with him and his wife.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “He was in town for the last week. He was in town when your group met.”

  “Impossible.”

  “He says he ran into Arthur Wien in California a few years ago.”

  “I think Artie mentioned that. The Bellers were vacationing there. You actually saw him?”

  “Saw him and spent an hour with him.”

  “I wonder if he slips in and out of New York without telling your gang,” his wife said.

  “Could be. New York’s a big place. You could be there a long time and not run into someone who lived a block away from you.”

  “The men I’ve talked to all seem to have a fondness for the place where you grew up. Why doesn’t Fred Beller feel that way?”

  “I could tell you that it’s a personal thing with him,” Bruce Kaplan said, “that he likes the Midwest, the slower pace, the greener grass. That’s probably what my friends have told you. I’ll tell you the truth. Fred’s mother committed suicide when we were about thirteen years old. She was a disturbed, unhappy woman. I can’t tell you much more about it because it was something no one would talk to us about.”

  “I can understand why.”

  “Fred came home from school that day and found her.”

  “How terr
ible.”

  “Think about it. She knew he would find her. Think about a woman killing herself and knowing her son would walk into the apartment and find her body.”

  He was right. It was an unimaginable thing to do. But I could see why the son would want to get as far away from that place, that city, those people as he could. “Did Arthur Wien write about it in his first book?”

  “You got me. It’s so long since I read that book, I can’t remember what he said and what he didn’t say.”

  “You should read it,” Arlene said. “It’s a good book, and a lot of what he writes is autobiographical.”

  “I’m going to get it out of the library tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got a copy I’ll be glad to give you. It’s even signed. The last time we saw Artie, I picked up a few copies and had him sign them. They make great gifts.” She got up and left the room, returning quickly with a thick paperback that she gave me.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “It’s not a first edition, but you know, he won’t be signing any more books.”

  “Who else have you talked to?” Bruce asked.

  “Dr. Horowitz on Friday, David Koch and Fred Beller yesterday, and Joe Meyer this afternoon.”

  “How’s Joe doing?”

  “He doesn’t look very good but he’s in good spirits.”

  “Sounds like Joe.”

  “They had a terrible tragedy in their family, you know,” Arlene said.

  “Besides Mr. Meyer’s illness?”

  “Their daughter was badly hurt in a car crash.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “A couple of years ago. I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Mrs. Meyer showed me a picture of the daughter taking a bow after a performance.”

  “It’s an old picture,” Arlene said. “She was badly injured. I don’t know whether she’ll ever be able to play again.”

  “How awful.”

  “I hope she gets her career back.”

  “Well, what else can we tell you?” Bruce asked. “The names of our teachers? I can still remember a few. How we played stickball on Morris Avenue? Did anyone show you the jacket?”